by Caz Frear
“You’d be good value on a fly-on-a-wall documentary.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
“You’d make good TV is all I’m saying.”
I give him a light punch. “Oh, I get it. So while Emily’s on the cover of Vogue or dating DiCaprio, I become a crazy cult figure. One of those late-night shows—Z-list Celebrity Meltdowns.”
He laughs. “Not what I meant, but Jesus, I’m digging meself a hole here. Let’s get back on track—you need more competition at work, that’s your issue?”
“I think so. See, to Steele, I’m the star striker. I know I am.” I squirm, feeling boasty, but I’ve got to get this out. “If I moved to Dyer’s team, say, I’d be a squad player again, competing for a starting place. It’d be a kick up the arse. A positive kick up the arse.”
“Excellent football analogy, Kinsella. I’ll add it to the reasons why I love you.”
I smile and look away. It’s a child’s drawing of a beautiful day. An almost clear blue sky, a few fluffy clouds thrown in for good measure. Lush green grass. Butterflies and sun hats. A balloon making a break for freedom in the distance.
And this man telling me he loves me.
I should be grateful for what I have. Maybe change isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
“Hey, look, probably nothing’ll come of it. Forget about it for now.” I nudge his knee with mine. “So come on, when are you going to tell me your news?”
He looks at the ground, pulling at a clump of grass. “What news?”
“The Americans, the other night. All that I Heart New York stuff. I figured it out, don’t worry. How long are they pinching you for? Will you be there around Christmas? Can we skate in front of the Rockefeller tree? Not that I can skate, mind. And I bet you’re rubbish, as well. Tall people usually are . . .”
“Two years.”
The words cut through my babble.
“I beg your pardon?” My voice sounds hollow, robotic.
“Two years. Well, twenty-two months, for some reason. The project starts late November and runs until September 2020.” He finally looks up. “Twenty twenty sounds mad, doesn’t it? Space-age.”
I don’t know why I’m shocked. If I hadn’t been so neck-deep in this case, in myself, I’d have seen what was pretty bloody obvious: that special envoys aren’t dispatched to London to convince someone to uproot for a few months. That kind of low-level badgering can be done over the phone, maybe Skype. But you need to see the whites of someone’s eyes if you’re asking them to leave their old life, or at least put it on pause.
“Jesus, late November. That’s four months away.”
“I haven’t agreed yet.”
“And are you going to?” The words curdle in my throat.
“Depends, doesn’t it? On whether you come too.”
My laugh is shrill. Relief, disbelief, and a burst of anger at the pressure.
“Fuck’s sake, Aiden, I can’t just . . . you can’t just . . .” I shake my head. “This isn’t fair.”
“Christ, remind me not to give you bad news.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just all a bit sudden.”
“I know, I know.” He takes both my hands. “Look, it’s just an offer and I’m flattered, o’course I am. But I’m not going anywhere without you, so if you can’t get your head around it, it’s grand, I’ll say no. And that’s a genuine ‘it’s grand,’ by the way. Not a Cat Kinsella ‘it’s grand but I’m secretly plotting to assassinate you.’”
I stifle a grin.
“It won’t look good though, will it? If you turn it down?”
“They’ll get over it. Look, five minutes ago, I might have pushed a bit more, but honestly? I didn’t realize you were that ambitious. I mean, I know you love your job and you’re great at it . . .”
“I didn’t know I was that ambitious until this week. But anyway, it’s not just my job, it’s my family. My dad, Jacqui . . . it’s such a long way.”
Aiden’s face contorts. “Your family? Your dad? Are you actually fucking kidding me?” He drops my hands. “I’m barely allowed to go near your dad, and I’ve never even met your bloody sister for some reason that I can’t even be bothered fighting about any more, but apparently they’re the reason we can’t go to New York. Oh, that’s brilliant, Cat. First class.”
“No one said you can’t go,” I fire back. “Go! I get five weeks holiday. We can have weekends. It’ll be fine.” It sounds about as fine as severing an artery. “It’s just seeing my dad in the hospital the other night . . .”
“He’s got a banjaxed arm, for fuck’s sake. Oh, hold on, didn’t I tell you I stubbed my toe on the bed this morning? That means you have to come with me, surely?” He’s shaking his head. “No, Cat. Do not go all Daddy’s Girl on me now. Say you don’t want to come because your career’s too important. Say it’s too big a step for us. Say New York’s too stressful. But not your dad. I mean, have you even called him since Tuesday? Because if you have, you haven’t mentioned it. But then, what’s new?”
“Don’t shout at me.”
“I’m not shouting.”
He isn’t. He’s raised his voice, but he’s not a shouter. I am a manipulator, though—Daddy’s Girl, through and through—and accusing him of shouting beats having a serious conversation.
But I could go, couldn’t I?
Because maybe deep down, I’m not thinking of leaving MIT4 because of ambition. What if it’s the chance to start again I’m craving? To be someone else, somewhere else. And where better than New York, three and a half thousand miles away from all the mistakes I’ve made?
From the family who’ll keep me making them.
“Do you really, really want to go then?” I say softly, sucking the sting out of the argument.
“Well, o’course I do.”
“Must be one hell of a project.”
A flat stare. “Fuck the project. Same old shite, different time zone, that’s all it is.”
“So why then?”
“Why?” He’s trying to play it cool but his lovely face gives him away. The wide-eyed awe. The glow of possibility. “Because it’s New York, baby. And because you’ve been to America and France and Barbados and probably South Central Siberia for all I know, and I’ve been to Ireland and England and three days in Prague—which I hardly saw anything of, I might add.”
We share a much-needed grin, reliving our seventy-two hours of sex, sex, and room service, ending with a trip up a lookout tower, where Aiden was up for having sex again.
I can’t be without him.
He either stays or we both go.
“I’ll think about it, OK?”
“OK. And it really is grand if you decide no. All that matters is that we’re together, Kinsella. I just want to be with you.”
The rest of the weekend passes in a blur of laughs, chores, and avoiding the conversation. Sunday lunchtime, we roam around Spitalfields Market, mingling with the tourists and shoppers, stopping to marvel at things we probably can’t afford and definitely don’t need. Aiden buys me a corsage and a candle he claims smells of fish. I buy him a Mr. Whippy and then proceed to eat half.
It’s the little things, they say. And whoever they are, they’re right.
Sunday night. I’m brushing my teeth when my phone rings.
Aiden answers, which must mean it’s Parnell. I pause, trying to catch the gist of what’s being said. Something about a Brazilian defender and then a few nice words about the dinner I made. I walk into the living room, still brushing. Aiden’s laughing at something Parnell’s said. I’d hazard a guess it’s at my expense.
“Give,” I order, my hand out for the phone, my mouth full of foam.
“I’ll pass you over, big man . . . yeah, see you soon . . . sure, we’d love to . . .”
I take the phone back into the bathroom. “We’d love to what?”
“Come over for dinner,” says Parnell. “Although from what I hear, you make a mean beef Wellington.”
“I unwrap a mean beef Wellington and throw it in the oven, gas mark seven.”
“Oh.” He actually sounds disappointed. “Aiden seemed to think it was the best thing he’s ever eaten.”
I spit and rinse quickly. “He’s easily impressed.”
Parnell resists the obvious retort. “Anyway, Spencer Shaw lands back at Heathrow tonight. The boss wants us on his doorstep first thing.”
“Yeah, fine, although I’m not sure about him anymore. The cause of death. Holly’s ‘Megan’ stunt, Fellows’ name coming into it—it feels bigger than a domestic gone wrong, don’t you reckon? And then there’s Brandon Keefe—we don’t know where that might lead. I honestly don’t think Spencer Shaw will have a lot to tell us.”
“And isn’t that the beauty of what we do, kiddo? Who knows what treasures lie ahead?”
“Have you been drinking?”
“I may have had a nightcap. All I’m saying is don’t be so defeatist. He might solve the case for us. We might be cracking open the champagne in the Tavern tomorrow night.”
“I don’t think the Tavern does champagne. It’s debatable whether it does wine.” I walk into the bedroom, hurl myself on the bed. “So you think there’s a case to solve then? You don’t think Holly is one of Masters’?”
“I don’t know.” There’s a huff of breath down the line, a sigh in the place of an impossible answer. “I do know Jacob Pope’s been attacked in Belmarsh, though.”
“Shit! Is it bad?” I ask, slightly thrown. I’d kind of forgotten about my prison jaunt earlier in the week. Another sign that maybe a change might do me good.
“Very bad. Critical. He’s in the ICU.”
“Oh wow, so not a playground spat?”
“More like a nine-inch-shank-at-lunchtime thing. A gang dispute, they reckon.”
Standard.
I stare at the ceiling for a few seconds, taking it in. “Well, clearly I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, but I’m not going to lose much sleep over him. His girlfriend didn’t even make it to the ICU.”
“He knew stuff about Masters though. Handy to have him around.”
Someone obviously didn’t think so.
21
If you didn’t know much about harassed-looking Spencer Shaw—the conspiracy to commit burglary, his labeling of his ex-girlfriend as a “mad bitch” when she’d been missing for three days, his dry-humping of a cowboy-booted “blond chick” a month after Holly was presumed murdered—you could almost, almost, feel sorry for him this morning. The last thing he needs is us clogging up his living room.
“We didn’t get home until two a.m. I actually felt sorry for my wife going into work this morning, but I think it was me who drew the short straw.”
He’s not wrong. There’s barely a sliver of carpet to be seen under all the half-unpacked suitcases, not to mention the usual miscellanea that comes with traveling with small kids: carriers, wet wipes, devices, snacks, pushchairs, nappies, a whole host of other contraptions. In fact, we’ve been there a few minutes before I realize there’s a child sleeping under a mound of crap on the sofa. A boy, I think, tucked under a blanket, only his sunburned forehead and socked feet on display. Another child isn’t so hard to spot—a baby girl in a playpen, making some sort of cuddly toy protest, bear after bear hurled over the bars and into the mess.
Spencer Shaw stands in the epicenter, staticky dark hair sticking out at odd angles, looking for all the world like he hasn’t got a clue where to start. Like domestic duty isn’t normally part of his job description. And, of course, he hadn’t banked on a visit from the Metropolitan Police this morning, although he knows all about Holly.
“I didn’t find out until Thursday. We try not to spend too much time on our phones when we’re on holiday with the kids, but I couldn’t resist posting a few photos and there it was, all over Facebook.”
“Not a good idea to advertise you’re on holiday to the whole of Facebook,” I say. “Attracts burglars. Thought you’d be wise to that.”
It’s cheap but he deserves it.
“Have you never made a mistake?” Shaw replies, all sad eyes and dark stubble. Personally, I can’t see what Holly saw in him, although he reminds me of the type a younger Jacqui used to go for: intense and brooding, probably thinks of himself as artistic. A tendency to whisper sweet, poetic nothings while lifting a twenty out of your purse.
“Too many to count,” I admit. “But we’re not here to talk about me.”
“Of course not. You’re here to talk about the mistake I made taking up with Holly.”
“And to see if you can shed light on how she ended up in a Cambridgeshire field with a bullet hole in her skull.”
He should flinch. He doesn’t.
“Funny,” says Parnell, offering a pinched smile. “Her friends say she made a mistake taking up with you.”
He bends down, doing a quick sweep of the floor for teddy bears. “Shona and Josh, I assume?”
“Mainly.” I do my bit, picking up a purple penguin. “Emma and Kayleigh weren’t your greatest fans either.”
“Let me guess, Holly was a saint and I’m the devil.”
“Got it in one, although you’ll be glad to know we generally take these things with a pinch of salt.” I throw the toy back in the playpen. “Smooching with another girl in the street only a month after Holly disappears doesn’t exactly make you look great, though. Was that the same girl who alibi’d you, by any chance?”
A proud stare. “Yes. The girl who alibi’d me and the girl who married me two years later.”
There’s a photo by the TV. Blond chick in cowboy boots is now a redhead in flip-flops, one hand clasping her eldest child’s hand, the other holding a bucket and spade.
Spencer catches me looking. “I love that photo. Loz was pregnant with Bonnie at the time, but we didn’t realize.” I take a glance at the zonked-out child under the blanket. It’s hard to tell his age precisely, but I’d say Loz was expecting him not too long after Holly Kemp took her last breath. “Loz saved me, you know? I was a mess before I met Holly and I was an even worse mess when I was with her. Me and Holly, we were volatile, whereas things with Loz have always been brilliant. She’s brilliant. She knows everything about my past but she’s always looked beyond it.” He taps his chest. “She sees me, the real me. Holly was always so wrapped up in herself. We might have been together for two years but it meant nothing.”
His candor is helpful, but Christ, it’s brutal.
“I’m not sure you meant much to her either,” I say, feeling the need to offer a comeback on Holly’s behalf. “Have you heard of a man called Dale Peters?”
“That poor sod she screwed for money? Yeah, that was a weird one.”
“You knew about Peters?”
“Holly screwed a lot of people for money.”
“You did OK out of it,” I point out. “Five nights at the Burj Al Arab, we heard.”
Parnell cuts in, saving Shaw his blushes. “What are you saying? Holly was a prostitute?”
“No, not like that. I don’t mean ‘screwed’ as in screwed.” He stiffens suddenly, staring at us with sharp, officious eyes. “Look, as soon as I heard you were revisiting Holly’s case, I spoke to my father-in-law. Loz’s dad is a solicitor, you see, and he knows all about the bad things Holly and I did, but he says I can’t be prosecuted for anything I tell you if there aren’t any complainants. And trust me, there aren’t.”
“Fine. Talk.” I wait for Parnell to take issue, but he looks as intrigued as me.
“OK.” He walks over to the sofa, quickly checking on the sleeping child. Once he’s happy he’s still dead to the world, he hefts a rucksack off a dining chair and sits down. “So I met Holly in 2010, in a club just off Regent Street. We got talking, drinking, and I ended up being up-front about being not long out of prison. She thought it was hilarious. She thought it was genius, actually—getting a job in an estate agency so you could effectively case the joints. I was flattered. I’d had enough of feeling like scum, so
when a gorgeous girl—because she was gorgeous—is looking at you like you’re this master criminal, it’s hard not to play along. And then I tell her about my parents. My mum had died a couple of years before; that’s what sent me off the rails, and my dad was nowhere to be seen since my sixth birthday . . .”
A flash of Serena Bailey’s daughter yesterday: “When we went to Hobbledown for my birthday last week, the whole of Year One came . . .” My first instinct is to feel sorry for Spencer Shaw, which surprises me. My second is something else. Something I can’t quite grasp hold of. Not exactly a feeling in my gut but a pebble in my shoe.
Shaw’s voice quickly distracts me.
“The no-parents thing settles it for Holly. She decides there and then that we’re kindred spirits. Says there’s no one in the world who’s going to give us what we want, so we just have to take it. And then, just like it’s the most natural thing in the world, she walks off and starts chatting up this guy right in front of me. I’m so shocked, I just stand rooted to the spot. But then after about ten minutes I think . . .” He shoots a look to the sofa, lowering his voice. “Fuck this. So I’m just about to leave when she comes flying across, saying we have to leave right now, while the other guy’s in the toilet.” He smiles, though it’s more of a grimace. “She’d stolen his wallet while she’d been chatting him up, brazen as anything. She’s waving £90 at me, saying that’ll buy us a bottle of champagne in Claridge’s. I was smitten.”
Parnell gives Shaw a confused stare. “So you didn’t steal the wallet, but you still checked that you couldn’t be prosecuted for drinking ‘stolen’ champagne eight years later?”
That bilious smile again. “Oh, that was just the start. Nicking wallets was just a giggle. Holly wanted bigger payoffs to justify the risk.” He clears his throat. “Do you know what a ‘badger game’ is?”
Parnell looks blank. I do my best to summarize.
“A woman gets a man—usually a married man—into a compromising position, and then a male accomplice bursts in and threatens the man with violence, scandal, the police, whatever, unless they cough up.”